Chapter Six

A nthony arrived at the Harrington ball the next evening as early as he dared without being presumptuous or inciting gossip. He wanted to anticipate his biting vixen's entrance, to be lying in wait by the time she was announced. However, halfway through the first set of dances, he was beginning to become impatient. He had remained in the entrance hall, chatting with friends and acquaintances as they arrived, keeping one eye on his social obligations and the other on the door. Meaning that he had been paying poor attention to both. She had not arrived yet. And it was well past the time at which fashionably late people arrived.

As the first contredanse neared its finish, his waiting came to an end. "Lady Cecilia Warenne," the steward announced, and Anthony looked up from his conversation with Admiral and Mrs. White to see her standing in the doorway, removing her cloak. She wore a simple gown of off-white silk, her gloves and shoes a matching shade. Her hair was in the severe high chignon of a few nights before, but now she had woven a wreath of small white flowers and pearls around her temple, and a few curls of fiery hair rested languidly on her forehead, lending her the air of Grecian grace she had possessed on the library balcony at their first encounter. And in my dreams , he thought, the memory of her touch making his chest tighten with desire. Again, no jewelry adorned her chest or stole attention from the soft curves of her breasts.

Perfect , he thought. She looked painfully angelic as she scanned the room, a demure smile playing at her lips. By the end of the night, he would steal that gentle innocence off her face. He would have her flushed and begging for him.

"Lady Cecilia Warenne…" he interrupted the Admiral's war story. "Now, why do I know that name?"

"Why that's the daughter of the late Duke of Queensbury, elder sister of George Warenne, the current Duke, who I believe is serving in the 9 th Regiment against Bonaparte, isn't he dear?" the Admiral's wife chimed in. "I hear she only arrived in town a few days ago. Caused quite a stir. She hasn't been seen outside of her ancestral home since her father died. Poor thing must be quite delicate for a blow like that to keep her cooped up in the country for three years."

"She doesn't look delicate," the Admiral snorted, surveying the confident, white-clad figure. "Doesn't even have a chaperone. Disgraceful. Harrington should have her thrown out."

"Well, she does come from a family of headstrong women," Mrs. White continued. "You remember her first season, dear? Flirting with every man who came her way. It's a wonder her parents managed to get her safely back to the country before she made an utter fool of herself. And I'm still not convinced she didn't."

"Didn't what?" Anthony asked, his eyes still on Lady Cecilia.

"Well, make a, a… you know… of herself. She has been away in the country for a full three years ," Mrs. White whispered.

"Hmmm," Anthony frowned. "If you'll excuse me, Admiral, Mrs. White. I feel it my duty to welcome Lady Cecilia back to Bath."

He strode brusquely through the throng of attendees at the entrance and caught Lady Cecilia's hand in his. "Lady Cecilia Warenne, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He bowed low over her hand, brushing his lips against her gloved knuckles. Her eyebrows arched in surprise, and he noted that her eyes, as black as witches' candles in the darkness the night he met her, were a deep amber color that matched her hair. "Allow me to introduce myself," he continued. "Anthony Maltravers, Viscount Stirling, at your service."

After a moment's hesitation, she smiled and nodded her head in acknowledgement. "'Tis a pleasure to put a name to a face, Anthony." It was his turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise at her use of his given name. Such unseemly familiarity in such a well-bred lady. He wouldn't let her have the upper hand in their repartee, though.

"Lady Cecilia, if you are not already engaged, may I claim the next dance on your card?" he asked, tucking her arm through his and leading her through to the dance floor.

She threw her head back in a small, bubbling laugh and admonished him. "You have ambushed me at my entrance, my lord, so you know full well that I have no dances on my card as of yet. And," she added, fixing him with a look somewhat like amusement and yet disconcertingly more calculating, "I don't stand on ceremony. Especially not with men I have kissed. You may call me Cecilia."

Anthony bit back a smirk. "Well Cecilia, I claim this Gavotte, then." He attempted to lead her into the throng of couples lining up for the next dance, but she stood firm at the edge of the ballroom, her face suddenly serious.

"I'm afraid I must disappoint you," she insisted. "It is not my intent to dance at all tonight."

Anthony would not take no for an answer. In fact, he would take nothing but "Yes, more. Please more! Oh God! Anthony!" from this woman as an answer to anything. He pulled her gently into the dance, knowing she wouldn't risk a scene by physically refusing him. "Oh, but I insist," he whispered into her ear as he nudged her towards their starting places. She seemed to falter for a moment, her legs almost giving out under her as he pushed her into place rather more forcibly than he needed to, and when the music started, she gave the barest hint of a curtsey, bending her knees no more than a few inches, capturing his eyes in a bristling stare all the while. He was almost grateful when they began the dance and she was forced to look away from him for a moment, though dancing was far from his favorite activity in which to engage with a beautiful woman.

Cecilia moved stiffly in the steps of the dance, though it was clear she knew the steps by heart. He attempted a seductively disarming smile in her direction, but couldn't shake the stare of disdain from her face. As they came together for a promenade down the line, he leaned into her and asked, "Is something the matter, my lady? I did not think you would be offended by my presumptuousness after what happened between us two nights ago."

She pursed her lips in momentary contemplation, then looked up at him with an elegantly false smile. "Not at all," she assured him. "I do love a good Gavotte." He thought he heard a twinge of pain in her voice as they turned and promenaded back down the line. "However, my lord," she reiterated, the crisp formality with which she now addressed him causing an odd twinge of disappointment somewhere in the realm of what might be assumed to be his heart, "I am not here to dance tonight. I would appreciate it if you would release me at the end of this dance."

He cocked his head to one side and grinned. It was intoxicating to see his power over her, to see her shy away from him like a feral horse. This was the chase the maidens and matrons of Bath had been so unfortunately unable to provide him lately. But he wanted much more than to make her uncomfortable. He wanted to make her wantonly comfortable with him. "We shall see, Cecilia. We shall see."

They continued the dance in silence and the false smile remained on her lips though her eyes held an expression he could not decipher. When the music ended, she gave him a quick curtsey and attempted to push past him into the crowd thronging the dance floor, but he caught her waist and pulled her into him as the waltz began.

"Just one more, Lady Cecilia," he whispered, his lips brushing against the curls at her forehead as he held her closer than propriety allowed. Let the gossips talk tomorrow , he thought. I will have this woman under my thumb by the morning, and then it will be left to her to make the best of a too-amorous show in the ballroom . He expected she might fight his hold again, make the small scene of pushing him away that would cause as much speculation about their relationship as would a close waltz. But she did not push him away. Instead he felt her sag slightly into his arms, allowing him to pull her closer. Her hand on his was heavy and limp, and her legs moved clumsily as they danced. He looked down at her, but she kept her chin tucked down like the night he'd first seen her, her face almost pressed into the shoulder of his coat. He could not have expected a better result. Only two dances and already she was surrendering to his touch. He allowed his hand to slip lower on her back. Her hot breath singed him through his suddenly too tight collar, and he realized as he clung to his last ounce of self-restraint that he would have to sweep her out into his carriage sooner than he'd anticipated or he would make love to her on the dance floor. Her breasts brushed against his waistcoat as she took a deep breath and he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation as he realized that he was already doing just that. Making love to her on the dance floor. The idea was absurd and coarsely charming and he allowed himself a small chuckle. She whimpered slightly in response, muffling the sound by pressing her mouth into his collarbone.

Was she under his spell so soon? He released her waist and tipped her chin up to look into her eyes, and the stricken look of pain he found there made him freeze. There were tears at the corners of her eyes. A tremble on her lip. She took advantage of his shock to turn from him, walking swiftly through the crowd of dancers towards the edge of the room.

He watched her retreat, and frowned. A limp. He distinctly saw her limp as she disappeared amongst the attendees, and he had not once tread on her foot during their dances. Something was clearly not right with Cecilia Warenne. He should leave her to her privacy. Then again, it was his duty as a gentleman to assure himself that she was alright. She was, after all, without an escort tonight. And he had promised his pride that he would have her tonight, whether she wanted him or not. Resolute to complete his mission, he followed her out of the dance.

In his confusion he had lost her in the crowd, despite the fact that she was as tall as half the men in attendance and taller than most of the ladies. He searched for her pearl and blossom encrusted head in the mob of young men and women all around the edge of the ballroom. A group of couples walked away from the wall onto the dance floor and he caught a glimpse of her white dress fluttering through a doorway across the room. He pushed his way through the merrymaking crowd to the place where he'd seen her disappear.

She was nowhere in sight. He slipped into the hallway, walking as quietly as he could, listening for any sound of her. Her footsteps. Her voice. There was nothing. The music from the ballroom faded as he wandered deeper into the house. He had almost decided to scrap his plan for the evening and leave it until another day when he heard voices at the end of the hall. He followed them, and finding the door into the garden at the end of the hallway ajar, he pushed it open and slid silently out into the darkness. The voices faded for a moment, then, "Where were you at Lady Spencer's?" shouted in a male voice echoed from around the corner of the house. He crept forward until he could peer around the ivy covered wall without being seen.

There she was, her thin white dress hanging limp in the damp night air, backed against the wall of the house by an angry looking man dressed in regimental reds. Their voices were hushed beyond his hearing, but she was saying something, her eyes wide and impatient. The man answered her back with a look of mocking contempt on his face and she curled her lip at him, pushing him away.

He pushed her back, holding her shoulders against the wall, and Anthony was tempted to step out of his hiding place and rescue her from her unwelcome company, but the look in her eyes as her face shone in the moonlight made him hesitate. It was not a look of fear or pleading. Not the look of a woman in danger. Her eyes flashed with defiance. She stood straighter until the height of her gaze matched her attacker's, not bothering to attempt to escape from her captor as she stared him down. She said something too quiet to be intelligible from Anthony's distance, her lips forming every word in sharp contempt. The military man looked at her silently for a moment, then grasped her left leg, digging his thumb into the inside of her thigh. She cried out in pain, her legs buckling under her as she slipped down the wall to the ground. "You will, or I will ruin you!" the man spat down at her, before turning and storming back towards the garden doors.

Anthony crouched in the shadows as the man passed, then turned back to where Cecilia sat on the ground, her teeth gritted together and eyes squeezed shut.

This was unconscionable! Anthony was well known for his abominable treatment of the fairer sex, but never had he physically attacked a woman, injured a woman. He strode out into the moonlight towards her, his only thoughts at that moment to sweep her up into his arms and let her weep against his shoulder.

She heard his approach and hissed "Back for it so soon?" But when she looked up and saw Anthony, a sob of relief shook her.

Suddenly, he couldn't find any words to say. He was not accustomed to comforting people. But she spoke again before he had to.

"Please," she said, her voice steadier, "bring me my cloak and arrange for my carriage to meet me at the back of the house." He stood there, unsure, still searching for some way to comfort her, but this was all so far out of his usual realm of expertise regarding women. "Please," she repeated.

"Yes," was all he managed to say.